Pandora
by BakaSalamandra
Summary: Post Reichenbach; A young girl by the name of Ophelia shares a dark and violent past with Mycroft Holmes as well as having an uncanny resemblance to the late consulting detective. As John Watson struggles to overcome grief Ophelia defies the British Government using her particular talents to unravel the mystery of Sherlock's Death.
1. The Prologue

January, she always hated January. The weather was always miserable and the gentle sprinkle of rain wasn't heavy enough for it to be worth using an umbrella but light enough to slightly cloud her vision. She looked up at the darkened sky and it was instantly swallowed into her bright grey eyes. Clouds drifted through London lazily and the weather seemed to have an odd effect on the ancient city. People seemed more distant and uncaring than usual, business men wore the exact same frown upon their face and pedestrians continued their journey with an unmistakable hint of boredom.

Yes, this is what London was like normally but recently it was more profound and noticeable. The city had become _dull_. The girl looked around at her fellow commuters once more, it wasn't right, this city was many things, but dull was not one of them. Maybe the city has changed for the better, there's been no excitement for a few months now she thought wearily, or maybe she has lost her faith in it. Sadly she knew it was the latter, ever since that day she has grown to dislike society more and more. Good thing she wasn't part of it.

She passed various streets and ignored the grand buildings rich with history that surrounded her, normally she was admire these small details in her whereabouts, but today she had more important things on her mind. She was so focused on her thoughts that she nearly walked straight passed her destination, it was only because she walked straight into a paramedic that she looked up and saw herself standing next to St. Bartholomew's hospital.

"Sorry mate" she murmured.

The paramedic said something in response but she didn't quite catch it, her eyes were fixed on the roof of the hospital, the ledge she was staring at had captured her imagination and she couldn't tear her gaze away from it.

"I said you dropped your book."

She span round and was facing a young boy around her age, he had dark brown hair that fell messily round his ears and must have been obscuring his sight, he was taller than her and had a soft voice, he was Irish but the accent was only slight. _Reality_ she thought as she snapped back into the real world. Her eyes darted away from his easy-going face, and looked down at his hands he was clutching a red leather book bound by black ribbon.

"Ah! Thanks, I was have been screwed if I lost that!" She exclaimed.

"No problem" he replied handing over the book.

"I saw you drop it when you rammed into that guy, he didn't seem too friendly did he?"

The girl raised her eyebrow slightly and looked back up at him.

"Not that I was staring at you or anything I - I was just -"

"Ophelia" The girl stated above his mumbling. The boy looked relieved and beamed like an idiot on Christmas.

"Darren, Darren O'Neil" he replied the grin never leaving his face.

"Well Darren, it was a pleasure and thanks again, so if you'll excuse me -" She began to walk away and he grabbed her hand, her eyes grew wide and she had to remind herself of her surroundings.

"Hey wait! Would it be alright if I saw you again sometime?" He asked nervously. Ophelia gave a deep sigh and turned to face him.

"Give me your phone." She stated.

"What? Why- " he began, pulling his phone out his pocket. She grabbed the phone off him and tapped in her number. A look of understanding flew across his face.

"What did you think I was going to do? Mug you?" She laughed

"Like you could" he retorted. Her eyebrows raised even higher than before and she turned on her heels and marched off into the crowd.

"Call me Darren O' Neil" her black hair stroked her cheeks as she disappeared round a corner and into an alleyway and he was left to stare longingly after her.

_Well wasn't that pleasant? _She thought as she quickly erased the memory. He would not be calling her, she will have a different number by then, can never be too careful he could be anyone. She stared around the alleyway and the dead end before her, she looked behind her and saw a familiar face, _Now to business._


	2. The Mercenary

A Mercenary in his late thirties ambled through the streets of London. He was getting frustrated with this job, _where the hell is she going?_ He asked himself as he closed in on his target. Ever since he began working for that pompous bastard he's been assigned really tedious jobs, why was he tracking a teenager? A man of his particular talents should be behind a sniper gun or following a dangerous war criminal or something, not prancing around Trafalgar watching a seventeen year old go shopping. _ At least the pay is good _he thought dryly. He sighed heavily and watched her flirt with some boy behind his newspaper.

A minute later he saw her walk off and stroll down a dark alleyway to the side of St. Barts.

"What's she up to now?" he groaned and moved in to follow her. He pressed himself against the wall and craned his neck to look down the alley, there wasn't anyone there.

"Shit" He hissed, she'd given him the slip. He turned and looked down the alley, and faced the wall, it was a dead end there was no where she could have gone. The only explanation was that she was –

THAWP!

Something struck the back of the man's head and he stumbled forward. He only just managed to recover his balance and spun round to see the girl with a cold look in her eye clutching a metal pipe. He raised a hand to his head, he was bleeding. _I had it with this bitch _and lunged forward at her, she expertly dodged, dropped the pipe then span to grab his arm and twist it behind his back, it was so sudden and he cried out in pain and shock.

"Send my regard to Mycroft won't you" she tilted her head and her eyes glistened, this girl was terrifying. He tried to fight back but she kicked him to the ground and slowly picked up the pipe. He reached for the pistol he carried in the inside of pocket of his coat and aimed it straight at her forehead. Any normal teenager would have been phased by this no matter how courageous they were, but this girl just smiled.

"Don't be stupid" She whispered.  
"You want to use that thing here, in the middle of London at-" she checked her watch

"Half past twelve on a Thursday?" her hair fell across her face and her smile never faltered for a second.

"I will if I have to" he gulped, why was he so scared? He had the upper hand here of course.

The girl chuckled darkly and reached into her coat with her free hand, she pulled out a black desert eagle, with a golden handle. The man closed his eyes for a second,_ that dick! How could he send him to keep tabs on such a dangerous kid without telling him? _He severely underestimated this girl. She giggled and then in a flash she kicked the gun out of his hand and smacked the pipe into the side of his head. The world went black.

Ophelia looked down at the unconscious man.

"Moron" she breathed and looked up knowing what she would see. Sure enough a CCTV camera and its little black eye stared straight at her. Her features darkened and she stared daggers into the lens, she knew who was watching her and she was going to tell him exactly where to stick it if he doesn't stop all this bullshit soon. Her temper erupted.

"PISS OFF!" She yelled at it and threw the pipe with such precision it flattened the camera against the wall. A few passers-by looked into the alley but Ophelia was already gone.

Mycroft Holmes frowned as he watched the young girl glare at the Camera, he knew she was glaring right at him and it made him uncomfortable. He clutched his umbrella tightly and leaned back into his chair the computer monitors lit up his face, it was good he was alone, so no one could see the look of growing concern as he pondered the conundrum that was Ophelia. Mycroft was a powerful man and there were few things he was willing to admit he was afraid of, and he was defiantly afraid of Ophelia.

"PISS OFF!" the tiny girl on the monitor screeched and lobbed a metal bar at the screen. The video distorted and crackled and then went black completely.

"Charming" Mycroft whispered. He was going to have to deal with her some other time, she was up to something and he knew it, but that wasn't what bothered him. He was wondering why she hadn't made a move against him at all until now. He pinched his eyebrows together as her words from that night drifted into his thoughts:

_I may be young and naïve Mycroft, but I know you and what you are capable of. You are not the good guy as you so often pretend. I swear if you ever do anything to hurt us again I will hunt you down and rip the life out of you Mycroft Holmes. I'm a weapon you created and don't think for a second that I won't come after you, I would shoot you in a heartbeat. _


	3. The Soldier

John Watson stood alone in their – his kitchen, it was completely still and quiet apart from the general bustle from the London streets outside. He had been on his own for a few months now, not that John was keeping track of how much time had gone by. He looked around his home at 221B. After Sher- after the incident John was planning to move out, he couldn't afford the rent on an army pension and between cases he didn't make much at the surgery. But Mrs Hudson bless her, she wouldn't hear a word of it she insisted that he stayed put and paid her what he could. This was a huge relief to John even though there were times he couldn't bear to be in the flat he was happy with the knowledge that no new tenant was erasing the evidence of all the memories he had obtained in this place.

John looked back on those times he could clearly see etched onto the walls, they made him smile, but also filled him with regret, if only he just stopped and appreciated what he had before it fell. All those times he felt frustration and annoyance he should have just laughed. The yellow smiley face crudely spray painted onto the wall grinned stupidly at him, he smiled back at it then turned his attention towards his tea.

It was Saturday so he had the day off from work, he hated not being at work, not being busy meant thinking, thinking meant remembering and remembering meant –

"DAMN IT!" He yelled as he spilt hot tea over his hand, he threw the cup onto the counter with such force it chipped slightly.

"Shit" he sighed again, it was getting difficult to cope. He knew where he had to go, he had been putting it off for a long time but there was no excuse now, he had nothing else on. He assessed the damage to his hand and ran it under cold water just to be sure. Within twenty minutes he was out of his pyjamas and dressed in his favourite jumper, one he got from his closet friend on his birthday last year, but he didn't dwell on it long before he was calling a quick farewell to Mrs. Hudson and throwing himself into the nearest taxi. He picked up some supplies on his way and then resumed his journey towards where his best friend lay.

It was cold out, the clouds was dark and clumped together, they were threatening to rain, but I didn't bother John he had an umbrella on him just in case it did. He trudged on silently as rows upon rows of stone passed him by, John thought for a moment about who could be buried under them, who were they? What did they accomplish in life? He wondered if any of them was anything like his friend, most likely not, no one was quite like him. The atmosphere around him was eerie; he hated graveyards, never a good memory at a graveyard. John wasn't afraid of dead bodies, he seen enough in the war and on cases to last a normal person a lifetime; no he was afraid of what those dead bodies left behind. Their ghostly apparitions were just memories for devastated family and friends to dwell on, what those people must have felt after their loss was too much for John to think about. He felt those emotions close in around him at these places and they suffocated him.

Those emotions evaporated when he saw the tall black headstone in the corner of his eye, detached from all the others just like his friend. John gathered himself together and began to tread slowly over towards the stone. That's when he saw a figure standing by the grave. His heart did a tiny backflip, a tall strong figure, with black hair stood looking at the stone. For a split second John though he had seen a ghost. Until he realised the figure was more feminine and had longer hair, also only about John's height now he looked closer. The girl suddenly realised she was being watched and turned to look at John. John almost gasped when he saw her, she had the same grey eyes and same face structure as his dear friend, she looked exactly like him!

Panic spread across the girls face and she ran off towards the trees behind her.  
"Wait!" John cried after her, and for a second forgot his limp which had come back with a vengeance and chased after her. He sped round the corner but she was gone, *_she must have been bloody quick to get away so quickly*_ he thought. He pouted in frustration and marched back to the grave of his best friend. *_Who was she? A family member?* _John thought, he had never heard of Mycroft mention a girl in their family, *_maybe it was a cousin? But then again Sherlock never struck me as much of a family man*. _Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective, John closed his eyes and thought of all the time he had spent with Sherlock, he had loved every bit of it. But now John was alone again and it made him angry. He put down the flowers he had picked up earlier and looked down at the skull. John has put the skull there last time he was here so Sherlock would have someone to talk too, it was stupid he knew that but it made him smile all the same, the idea of Sherlock rambling on and on to the skull about this and that. He put all thoughts of the girl out of his mind, sat down in front of the grave and began asking himself the questions that he had been dwelling on a lot recently.

"Why'd he do it?" He asked the skull, he paused not expecting a reply, so when he got no response he continued talking.

"Why he – why'd he leave me? There must have been a reason! I mean I know his reputation meant a lot but that surely wouldn't have made him… he couldn't be that selfish could he? No of course not, there had to of been a reason, one of Moriarty's sick games, but - but I don't want to accept that either that means I failed him, I could have helped him, there must have been a way I - I failed you Sherlock, I'm sorry" Tears were falling down his cheeks now he couldn't help it, he felt like a fool talking to the skull but I was easier than talking to the grave.

"I'm sorry Sherlock" he whimpered. This is the first time he had cried in a while, it felt good to get it off his shoulders. That's when he noticed the white mark on the edge of the black stone.

"Oh not again" John narrowed his eyes and tried to contain his anger, about a month ago some kids vandalised the stone and painted the word "FAKE" onto the grave, John had never been so angry, he swore if he ever found who did it he would batter them to death. His fists were shaking with rage now as he stood up to assess the damage. What he saw though almost brought him to his knees. In white paint and a fancy font someone had wrote:

"**I believe in Sherlock Holmes**"

John pressed his hands against the grave, tears were threatening to fall again he didn't care he smiled and began to laugh, *_what fantastic bugger has done this? Was it that girl? Oh who cares? Someone else believes he wasn't a fake!* _

"You hear that Sherlock, you're not alone!"

_*But you are John*_, his mind cruelly reminded him, the smile faded from Johns lips.

Ophelia would have kicked herself if she wasn't crouching in a tree looking down on a rather sad and confused looking doctor. How could she have been so careless? He had seen her! She was getting slack. She came to Sherlock's grave to inspect Raz's latest piece of work and see if she could pick up any more clues. She had also retrieved the camera she had hidden in the skull a while back, the final piece. Mycroft wasn't the only who could play that game. She now believed she had all the necessary evidence she just needed to piece it all together.

_*Then we will see Mycroft, we will see if you deserve to hang*._

She watched the doctor for a few seconds more and then disappeared into the shadows.


	4. The Assassin

On her way home from the graveyard Ophelia realized she was going to need cash to proceed with her plans. So as much as she hated to admit it, Ophelia needed a job. She didn't go to school, was currently unemployed and she was out of money once again (wasn't her fault she had expensive tastes). For the first time she regretted chasing off potential clients when she started gathering evidence for her "project" but she didn't dwell on this fact too long before she was looking at her options. Unfortunately she only had one option and this meant there was only one place she could go even if it meant demolishing her pride with a heavy duty bulldozer. Slipping soundlessly into her apartment she began making preparations for a long and arduous journey. She needed to be properly equipped, she wasn't about to walk up to one of England's most securest buildings and ask to pop in for a cuppa tea, oh no. Even though she was most likely to get away with it, it just wasn't her style. Besides she'd love to see the look on Mycroft's face when she turns up unannounced. Also to drop the hint that no matter how many armed guards he surrounds himself with, the only protection he will ever have is his umbrella, and even if there's a sword hidden in there it won't even buy him time.

She knew why she wasn't getting any jobs from the slick bastard, he'd been avoiding her ever since the incident, scared out of his wits no doubt, she almost felt sorry for him, almost. She briefly wondered if he was still bothering with the diet or had this new found fear of a teenager forced him back into comfort eating, his only ally was always a good slice of cake after all. She smiled deviously then snapped her attention back to her living room.  
"Decisions, Decisions" she mused and she stared at her extravagant gun collection decorating the walls.  
"Don't want to appear too aggressive now, do we?" as she swiped two small hand guns from the walls, expertly spun the around in her hands and placed them on the coffee table behind her. She looked back up at the collection and stroked her L85A2 rifle fitted with German-made 40mm grenade launcher, her favourite gun.  
"Some other time" she whispered, she sighed and walked over to the set of cupboards to her right. She pulled open the first draw and carefully selected six cartridges, she wasn't going to repeat that time in downtown Soho being caught with the wrong bullets, and having to do the rest with shurikens, great fun but didn't bring the Chinese mafia down as cleanly as she would have hoped. Her days of inexperience were over, she had won her title and was feared among those who hired her.

She proceeded towards her wardrobe and casually flung the doors open, she rifled through all sorts of clothes and disguises she'd picked up over her short career until she found her battle suit. She pulled out a black pair of combat trousers and a black tank top, she got changed quickly and then pulled out her tight but thick black jacket that fell down just above her knees. She stood in front the full body mirror adjacent to wardrobe and examined herself. She zipped up the jacket and pulled the collar up. Unlike those crappy action films where the female heroes and spies all wear those horrendous skin tight outfits purely for the revealing sex factor, Ophelia preferred a much more practical outfit that suited her line of work. Where were you supposed to hide secret knives and poison vials in spandex for Christs sake! Speaking of poison she turned away from the mirror and headed to the kitchen, in the cupboard under her sink, where Ophelia kept a very different kind of dangerous chemical. She placed four vials of colorless liquid onto the counter and lifted up the painting of a rather typical and dull cottage that was in the flat before she moved in. She had made good use of it though but using it to hide four seven inch army blades, two of them in black sheaths that were strapped to the wall. She removed the two sheathed blades and slotted one of the vials into the handle of each knife. Grabbing her shin high boots she shoved the knives into the slots concealed on the side of each boot.

She strolled into her bedroom and pulled out a long silver briefcase from under her bed, it contained her most prized possession. Ophelia had been entranced with comic books ever since she was a little girl, that hadn't changed. She pulled out her black utility belt, yes utility belt and strapped it onto her waist. She's been mocked for it in the past but it has saved her arse more times than she could count. It was brought for her by the man she looked up to most in the world on the tenth birthday, he no doubt meant it as a joke but as soon as she was able, modified it into a full fledged death belt. She gave a quick smile and instantly felt more at ease, nothing could touch her when she was in batman mode as she like to call it. It was childish she knows, like when a young boy would feel safe when he had his trusty teddy bear, she had her belt and as soon as it was fully equipped she could destroy anything or anyone who crossed her. It had five small boxes strapped to the back and two empty scabbards attached to the hips. She walked back to the kitchen and took down the other two knifes slotted them into the scabbards. The two remaining poison vials were carefully slotted into the front of the belt in neat little holders. She wouldn't use those unless it was absolutely necessary. Pulling the jacket to cover the belt she walk back to the hall of guns picking up her lightweight rucksack in the doorway and stuffing the cartridges she'd pulled out earlier. The back was already packed with basic necessities in case she had to leave in a hurry, so now there was only one thing she had left to do, complete her disguise.

London was full of weirdos so most people didn't pay attention too someone who dressed slightly differently anyway, but a normal enough looking girl in hefty black clothing and a large rucksack might receive a few looks, and she couldn't afford that. She needed to stop looking like a runaway teenager and start looking like someone people would feel the need to avoid their gaze. She picked up the make up bag left in her bathroom and stared at her own reflection. She was a pretty girl with clear grey eyes and long black eyelashes, she had a very angular face which her long black hair fell neatly passed framing her pale features. She unzipped the bag and covered her face in white powder, within seconds the little colour on her face vanished and a blank canvas remained.  
"God, I look like a fucking clown" she mumbled. Some grey eye shadow, black eye liner and even blacker lipstick later she became a very different person. The make up was itchy against her sensitive skin but it was finished, no one would dare question a girl who looked like she rather be listening to hardcore thrash metal than updating her facebook status. She felt like an idiot but soon forgot that when she thought of the task at hand.

She left the name Ophelia behind as she departed from her isolated apartment and gazed out into the London streets, the world now went by under a different light, one where human life meant nothing and survival meant everything. Ophelia was gone and Pandora made her way to see the man she hated more than anything else.


End file.
